


We're Sorry For Any Inconvenience

by Saki101



Series: Other Experiments [36]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Lestrade-centric, M/M, Pre-Slash, Puppies, Travel, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 19:18:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saki101/pseuds/Saki101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Months after The Fall, John doesn't return from a holiday.  His friends and family don't report his absence to the police.  Mycroft thinks Lestrade may know why.  At least that's the ostensible reason for his visit to Lestade's office.  </p><p>Can be read alone.</p><p>Excerpt:  Lestrade considered the man standing in his office.  He was sure that if Sherlock wanted his brother to know he was alive and well and where he and John were, Mycroft wouldn’t be suggesting a friendly chat over dinner.  Mycroft gestured towards the door as Greg stood and rounded the desk.  He knew it was a dangerous move to accept, but Sherlock wasn’t the only one who loved a challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Sorry For Any Inconvenience

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sherlockmas SPF 2013 to fill bwblack's Prompt (#39): Lestrade; upgrade to first class. 
> 
> (The first paragraph is a summary of the opening scene between Mycroft and Lestrade in _Carbonado_. The full conversation that preceded Mycroft’s offer may be read [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/502318.html).)
> 
>  _We're Sorry For Any Inconvenience_ may also be read as part of the [Other Experiments series](http://archiveofourown.org/works/342412.html) where it would fit in after [Carbonado](http://archiveofourown.org/works/502318.html).

Lestrade considered the man standing in his office. He was sure that if Sherlock wanted his brother to know he was alive and well and where he and John were, Mycroft wouldn’t be suggesting a friendly chat over dinner. Mycroft gestured towards the door as Greg stood and rounded the desk. He knew it was a dangerous move to accept, but Sherlock wasn’t the only one who loved a challenge.

There was an allure, Lestrade had to admit, to the way the Holmes brothers took possession of the space around them. Sherlock mainly did it like a cyclone, although sometimes it was just the act of drawing himself up to his full height with that look of impatient expectation that achieved it. Mycroft always seemed to be at full height. His movements had none of Sherlock’s energetic drama, but their careful modulation implied a restrained force which had always piqued Greg’s interest. 

Amiably, Greg let Mycroft usher him out of New Scotland Yard as if Greg might get lost in his own building without Mycroft indicating the next turn or opening one of the few doors which weren’t automatic. It was a subtle appropriation of authority. Greg made a couple remarks about the weather and waited for the next gambit.

*** 

The black car purred at the kerb. From time to time, Greg had seen Sherlock and John disappear into ones like it, had watched Mycroft emerge from such as it at the occasional crime scene or in front of Baker Street. Perhaps Greg’s impression would have been different if he hadn’t known Sherlock for so long or if John hadn’t shared the stories that he had. Greg settled himself in the leather interior with an edge of amusement. He had investigated people from all walks of life, even ones with sleeker cars than this, although, truth be told, he hadn’t accepted dinner invitations from any of them.

The restaurant, however, was another experience. It was in the City, away from the activity along the river, nearly deserted several hours after the banks had closed and the majority of its denizens had retired to Knightsbridge or Surrey before they swarmed back in the morning to start all over again. The streets were slightly darker than he thought ideal, but there weren't many violent crimes on the streets after hours here. He glanced up at the ornate stone facades as the car door was opened for them. Most of the crimes happened up there, but they weren’t in his division.

In the lobby, the lights were low, the concierge’s desk discreetly lit in its alcove under the marble stairs. A man, whose suit was far better cut than Lestrade’s, gestured towards the brass door of the lift. Conversation drifted down from the descending cage. Three people emerged, brushing by Lestrade in a current of delicate fragrance and soft innuendo. He couldn't suppress a grin at the body language, the fragment of conversation. French was so good for that. He’d been good at that, and at being blunt when the need arose. There had been much more of the latter in recent years. Greg turned back to the lift, his jacket obscuring most of his shrug, grin gone. Mycroft held the doors open with one arm and unlike Sherlock, who would have rolled his eyes at the obvious moment of self-pity, Mycroft angled his head as though listening. Greg nodded at him as he stepped into the small enclosure, noted their reflections in the smoky mirrors hiding the looped pulleys drawing them upwards. Lestrade recognised the assessing look, so like Sherlock's. He took heed of it. _You are a pair. Not perfectly matched, but a pair, nonetheless._

Another two patrons were leaving the restaurant as they entered. The maître d’ stood a bit straighter when he caught sight of Mycroft. With a low murmur and a graceful signal, he summoned a waiter who accompanied them up the wrought iron stairs to the mezzanine that circled the high-domed room. There weren’t many buildings in the City that Lestade hadn’t entered in one capacity or another, but this was one of them. The ring of windows below the curve of the dome let in semicircles of light from the taller buildings nearby and the dove grey glow of a London night sky. 

Greg scanned the unfamiliar hall more fully while the waiter poured wine for Mycroft’s approval. On the far side of the room below them, candlelight flickered from the two tables still occupied. The faint aroma of coffee wafted towards him from one of them, the diners leaning away from their table in apparent satiation. The couple at the other table leaned towards one another in anticipation of other satisfactions, if Greg was any judge. And he was. With a fluid whisper, Lestrade’s glass was filled; Mycroft’s standards seemingly met. Quietly, the waiter withdrew and Mycroft raised his glass. “To secrets,” he said. 

*** 

Mycroft stepped onto the footpath. The tip of his umbrella rapped sharply against a paving stone, the sound reverberating off the silent buildings. The City echoed late at night. The ill-intended had to tread softly or be betrayed by their footsteps. Greg scanned the street for the black car. A growl sounded up an alley. He glanced towards it. A flash of yellow light and red paint brightened the gloom as a bus rumbled past the narrow intersection with the parallel road. The noise faded into the quiet. The car didn’t appear.

“Time for a walk?” Mycroft asked. Lestrade’s gaze shifted towards the voice that held not a hint of a slur despite the hour and the fine wines. Mycroft snapped his watch closed and slipped it back into his waistcoat pocket. The gesture presented an opportunity to admire the lines of the garment, how it accentuated the narrow waist, before the jacket fell back into place. Greg had heard Sherlock tease Mycroft about his weight. If there had been a battle, Mycroft had clearly won. Lestrade imagined there weren’t many that Mycroft lost. Over dinner, he hadn’t engaged Greg again about John, turning the conversation instead to the history of the building in which they sat, a few compliments for the courses presented to them in tiny and beautifully-arranged portions and a string of topics which Lestrade recognised as ones in which he was particularly interested. Research had been involved in this encounter. Greg admired the technique and remained alert. “Which way would you like to go?” Mycroft enquired, apparently having deduced Greg’s acquiescence.

Like many of Mycroft’s questions during the evening, the question could be taken at least two ways. Lestrade knew Mycroft hadn’t missed his consideration of Mycroft’s sartorial choices. Physical seduction didn’t seem like a tactic Mycroft would employ personally. _Sussing out my susceptibilities, are you?_ Greg turned away from the river. _Just where do you lie on the goodness continuum, Mycroft?_

Mycroft tapped his phone a few times, put it away, hung his umbrella over one arm and threaded the other through Greg’s. “So we shan’t be commandeering the _Golden Hind_ and sailing to parts unknown this evening?” he asked.

Greg wondered if the wine had had more of an effect than he’d thought or if he was being deliberately misled. “I’ve pulled too many dead bodies from the river,” he replied and realised the rest of the sentence would have been, _…to find it romantic._

“Terra firma, it is, then,” Mycroft said and guided Lestrade around the corner. In the gap between the glass fronts of opposing office blocks, stood the bell tower of St Dunstan’s-in-the-East. “But one can’t avoid the ghosts in London,” he said. “Their numbers are legion.”

“More beneath the land than the water,” Lestrade mused. Somehow the ones washed up by the river had always seemed more forlorn, the ones dragged from it more pitiful than other corpses. Perhaps it was the idea of their not having been able to draw a last breath. Perhaps it was because he’d almost drowned in a river as a child. It was how he’d learned to swim. _Needs must._

“By orders of magnitude,” Mycroft stated with assurance, “despite the suicides and sunken vessels under the water. The land’s risen up over the centuries on layers of bones. You can hardly plant a shrub in the City without disturbing someone’s remains.”

“I wonder if they mind?” Greg said as they circled the tower and entered the gardens of the bombed-out church through gates that should have been locked at that hour. 

“Perhaps it’s a break from the tedium of being dead,” Mycroft suggested. They came to a stop in what had been the nave. 

Trees and vines grew through the empty windows and doorways, glass and wood long gone. The graceful curves of the stone were the only survivors of the Blitz, some had escaped the other Great Fire as well. 

They sat beside an angel, the wings tucked behind the sleeping body, the stone linens appearing soft and rumpled about him. 

Mycroft surveyed the ruins. “An eloquent testament to humanity’s genius for creation and destruction and nature’s indifference to both,” he said, leaning back and studying the night sky through the framed space which should have held the roof.

“I chased a purse-snatcher through here when I first joined the police,” Greg said. “Caught him just here.” He rested his hand on the edge of the tomb, ran his fingers over the undulating stone. “Scared witless, but not high. Fifteen maybe. Ginger, thin as a rail…”

“You let him go,” Mycroft said.

“I got the purse back. Everything still inside.” 

“You received a commendation for that,” Mycroft remarked. 

Greg shook his head. “Yeah. The victim was so grateful. She insisted on writing a letter about my ‘quick and brave actions’. She’d had her passport with her.”

“You’re a man guided by the spirit of the law, not the letter,” Mycroft observed, standing. He held out a hand to Lestrade.

“He wouldn’t have fared well in an STC,” Lestrade concluded, accepting it. He heard car doors opening. A pair of Jaguars idled below the park gate.

“Perhaps, if you receive another postcard from John, you might keep it away from the neighbour’s dog and give me a call?” Mycroft said as the driver opened the rear door. 

Greg smiled. “Puppies are hard to handle.”

Mycroft leaned into the car when Greg was seated. “It’s been a most pleasant evening, Detective Chief Inspector.” Greg slid across the back seat. Mycroft straightened. “The driver will drop you home,” he said, closing the door and turning towards the other car.

Greg lowered the window and leaned out. “Wait. I can catch a taxi.” Mycroft looked back. “You’re not going home, are you?” Greg asked.

Mycroft shook his head. “Have a good holiday,” he replied and got in the other car. The door shut.

Greg leaned back. “You need my address?” he asked the driver.

“No, sir,” the man replied as he did a three point turn and headed south.

“Right,” Lestrade muttered. He was certain he had not mentioned his holiday plans at any time during the evening. His phone vibrated.

_This is the best number on which to reach me. Thank you again, Gregory. M_

“Right,” Greg repeated and turned his face into the breeze from the open window.

*** 

“Damn!” Greg said as he ended the call and saw the time. He made a final check of his flat, double-checked his pockets for wallet and keys and grabbed his bags. “I am not the only DCI in the Met.” 

The lift dinged as he was locking the door. “Hold that,” he shouted, testing the handle.

“Cheers, Stuart!” Greg said, jumping into the lift. Stuart smiled and his dog yipped, straining against his lead to follow Greg. Greg jabbed the ground floor button. “Eaten any good post lately, Didymus?” he asked as the doors began to close. 

“Have fun!” Stuart said over his dog’s barking. Greg gave him a knowing grin and a thumb’s up. The doors shut.

*** 

Briefly, Greg considered splurging on a taxi to Victoria, but on a Saturday afternoon, without a siren, overground transportion wasn’t a good option. He walked the five minutes to the tube and got to the platform just as a Circle Line train was pulling away. He glanced at the display board: next train in four minutes. _That’s plenty of time._ The Tannoy crackled to life. Amidst the unintelligible echoes, Greg heard the words, minor delays, but not the location. He pulled out his phone. He didn’t have any reception and it really wasn’t an emergency. He took a deep breath and repeated to himself that holidays were supposed to be fun. Stretching out on the sofa and watching SkySports wasn’t a real holiday, he reminded himself. Wind came down the tunnel before the sound of the train. Greg let out a breath. 

The train was packed. “Tourism is good for the economy,” he mumbled as someone’s rucksack scraped past his face. “It is.” 

They all lurched forward in the darkness between Westminster and St. James Park. “We’re being held at a red signal. Should be underway in a minute,” the driver announced. “Just waiting for a District Line train to clear the platform at Victoria. We're sorry for any inconvenience.” Greg tried to take heart from the fact that he’d actually understood every word of the driver’s recitation and not to imagine abandoned packages or mangled bodies on the tracks. The train moved. The zip of the knapsack raked across his ear. He thought wistfully of blue lights and sirens.

It didn’t surprise him when the Gatwick Express started pulling away as he approached it. “They run every thirty minutes,” he muttered as the station attendant gestured smilingly at the empty track where the next train was due.

North Terminal was manageable. Greg smirked at the winding line at the check-in desks and congratulated himself on having printed his boarding pass at home and packed very lightly. At security, the lines weren’t too long. He plunked his shoes and belt into one plastic bin, his laptop and jacket into another and helped the elderly man behind him heft his carry-on onto the conveyor belt. He flexed his shoulders and smiled as he glanced down the hall. He was thinking about jet-skiing under an azure sky when the first metal detector arch buzzed. The woman two people ahead of him held out her arms for the security officer to wave her wand when the arch to their left buzzed. Greg glanced at the man in pinstriped trousers and pale blue button down looking puzzled as the officer suggested he re-check the contents of his pockets. The arch to the right sounded. Greg watched the faces of the security personnel change. Another arch blatted. Two empty lines were opened. When the employees tested the arches their alarms went off. Greg looked at the ceiling. A technical malfunction was better than an assault on the airport, he thought. “But not by much,” he groused.

Whatever the problem had been, it was soon corrected, but Greg still had to sprint to the gate, the last dozen or so people boarding as he came to a halt at the back of the queue. A couple with twins in a pushchair pulled up behind him. 

His boarding pass was somewhat crumpled when he handed it over to the attendant with his open passport. “Did you check-in online?” the man enquired.

Greg nodded. The employee stared at his computer screen. One of the twins squalled. “Could you wait just a moment while I check in this family?” the employee asked and Greg nodded again and complied.

The family passed beyond the kiosk and the airline attendant turned to Lestrade and smiled. “I’m afraid the flight is overbooked,” he began.

A few beers and sports from his couch were looking better and better to Greg. “Right,” Greg replied and let out a long breath. 

“So,” the man continued, tapping his screen, “if you’ll just bear with me for a minute longer. Yes, there we are.” He crossed out the number of Greg’s seat, scribbled something above it and held the boarding pass out to Greg. “We have a seat available in first class, so you’ve been upgraded. We're sorry for any inconvenience,” he finished, gesturing towards the corridor behind him. “You may proceed to board now.”

“Right,” Greg repeated. “Cheers.” He caught up to the parents with the twins and slipped past them as they folded up the pushchair. The steward squinted at the wrinkled boarding pass and waved his arm to the left. 

First class was small, his seat easily found. Greg stowed his bags and set to figuring out how to adjust the different sections of his seat. He had just slipped off his shoes, put his feet up on the footrest and buckled his seatbelt when a steward came along with a basket of hot flannels. He waited patiently by each row as the passenger to either side of him dropped a used cloth into a second basket. It was surprising how soothing the warmth was. Greg was unravelling his headset when he heard the faint tinkle of glassware. Another steward stopped beside him with a tray of champagne flutes. “The captain will be making an announcement shortly that take-off will be delayed. We’re sorry for any inconvenience.” Greg took the champagne with a smile and thought that if he had a blog like John, that would definitely be the title of this day’s entry. “Ta,” he said to the steward.

The seat back was low enough that Greg was practically reclining, balancing his empty champagne glass on his stomach and beginning to drift off when the captain announced that they had been cleared for take-off. A passing steward plucked the glass from his lax hand. “A refill, sir?”

“Sure,” Greg replied. He nodded his thanks as he accepted the full glass, took a sip and savoured the absence of a deadline more than the alcohol. He was on the plane, he had no connecting flight. What happened next was someone else’s responsibility. Ahead of him lay a week of sun and sea and clubs, and if he troubled himself enough to exert some charm, possibly some casual shagging. He had been long overdue for a proper holiday. His whole body told him so. 

*** 

It had been tempting to enjoy the perks of the upgrade, but once they were airborne, he’d surrendered to the luxury of being able to put his feet back up, lowered his seatback and slept.

Twilight was fading into night as they landed. The idea of a late dinner and a bit of club prowling tugged at his fancy. He took a deep breath as he pulled down his bags and descended the stairs with the first few passengers. Across the tarmac a private jet was taxiing into a berth.

The line wasn’t long at the car hire desk. He’d toyed with the notion of booking a motorbike, but had settled on a Mini. It did rain in Spain sometimes.

Greg pulled the scrap of paper with his reservation number on it from his wallet and pushed it across the desk. The attendant studied her computer screen for a moment before she looked up with a smile. “You have been upgraded,” she announced, presenting Greg with a colourful flyer. “You may choose between these three models.” She tapped the second with an equally colourful fingernail. “This is the most popular, but they are all available this evening.” Greg looked up from the photographs to the woman’s honey-coloured eyes and wondered if other things might be available that evening. He almost asked, but another customer dropped his keys on the counter. “If you need a moment to decide,” the woman said, glancing at the newcomer. He read her name tag: Angelina

“Yeah,” Greg said, nodding at the other bloke. “This might take me a while.” He nearly laughed. He didn’t even think cars like this were for hire at airports. The choices before him were between a Jaguar XK in a garish blue, a red Masarati GranCabrio and a DB9 Aston Martin convertible. Greg smirked to himself. He enjoyed Bond movies. And the DB9 was silver. How could he resist? He tapped on the picture of the Aston Martin when Angelina turned back to him.

“Un momento,” she said and picked up her telephone. She frowned for an instant. “Perfecto,” she declared, lowering the phone to her shoulder after a rapid exchange that Greg could not follow. “That one was returned this afternoon. It is almost ready, but there will be a short wait. Do you wish to chose another?”

“No,” Greg said. “I don’t mind waiting for what I want.” 

Angelina smiled and spoke into the phone. Greg leaned against the counter. A door opened behind it and a man stepped out who could have been Angelina’s brother, considering the waves of dark blond hair and golden eyes. “Ah, Angelo,” Angelina said and Greg assumed their exchange was an update on his situation because he caught the words Aston Martin in the cascade of syllables. At least he hoped it wasn’t a complaint about the Brit trying to chat her up. She turned back to Greg. “My shift is over, but my colleague will look after you. The wait shouldn’t be too long for your car. We’re sorry for any inconvenience.” 

His gaze flickered up to Angelo for an instant. “No worries,” Greg said. “Have a lovely evening.” He couldn’t help watching as she turned to leave. 

“You are familiar with driving on the right side of the road?” Angelo asked. 

Greg’s attention shifted again. The young man's shoulders were broad and his shirt clung to his chest as it tapered into his trousers. Greg decided that either the champagne on the plane had been very strong or Angelo and Angelina were twins. _And very proud parents you must have._ Greg nodded in answer. _Definitely need a club,_ Greg thought. 

*** 

The motorway followed the coast and Greg would have happily driven twice the distance from Malaga to Marbella just for the joy of handling the Aston Martin on the smooth road. He was rather pleased at how easily he found his way into and back out of Marbella to his hotel even though it had been a few years since his last visit. The hotel had been under construction then and he’d admired its location on the beach. It was pricey, but he’d chosen the least expensive single with a sweeping view of the motorway system, so it had been affordable.

“Lestrade,” he said as he reached the desk.

The clerk nodded and consulted his computer, then the concierge. “I’m sorry,” the older man explained, turning to Greg, “but there seems to have been an error with your reservation.” Greg sighed and reminded himself that there were other hotels along the coast. “There is a sailing competition this week and we are fully booked.” 

“You have some suggestions for other hotels nearby?” Greg asked. The sailing competition had been one of the reasons he had chosen that week to arrive.

“As far as I am aware, everyone’s booked solid this week,” the concierge said. His computer beeped. The man prodded it and his eyebrows lifted. “However, there is a suite that has just become vacant. A last minute cancellation.”

“A suite isn’t exactly in my budget,” Greg stated.

The concierge’s eyes were fixed on the computer screen. He gave several instructions to his colleague before he faced Greg with a smile. “The mistake was ours. There will be no extra charge. We are only happy that we have something to offer you. We are…”

 _…sorry for any inconvenience_ , Greg thought as the man spoke the words.

“It has a lovely balcony overlooking the sea. I hope you will like it,” the concierge finished, handing Greg the key card. “Please accept our apologies and a bottle of complimentary champagne.”

“Sure,” Greg said, taking the key card. “Gracias.”

“The lifts are just there,” the concierge finished with a sweep of his arm.

 

A bellboy was leaving the suite when Greg found it at the end of a long, softly-carpeted hallway. “The tapas is set out on the balcony, señor. Enjoy your stay,” the young man said, holding the door open for Greg to enter before closing it gently after him. A couple lamps had been lit in the sitting room, the drapes pulled back from the open balcony doors and the sound of the sea filled the room. Dropping his bags on the sofa as he passed it, Greg accepted the invitation to dine al fresco. He stacked the covers from the three plates arranged around the ice bucket on the small table, peeled off a slice of parma ham and grabbed the open bottle by its neck. There was always a bit of unreality about travel, but Greg thought his day had had more than its fair share. He leaned against the railing, breathed in the ion-rich air and lifted the champagne to his lips. A few specks of coloured light danced upon the rolling water, but the sky above it was littered with stars. He raised his champagne bottle in salute to the sparkling dark.

*** 

It was early enough that the sand was not too hot beneath his feet as Greg made his way to the beach. Most of the other bathers were still abed and he had more privacy than he would have in an hour. The sand began to squelch as he drew close enough for the water to wash over his feet. One had to approach the sea with respect for the dangers below the glimmering surface. There were treacherous currents, but the push and roll of the waves always brought out the boy in him. He dived into a frothing breaker and laughed when he came up for air and dived again.

A smile was still playing about his lips as he headed for the beach umbrella under which he’d spread one of his towels. A waiter stood beside it with what looked like orange juice. Greg wondered how far the hotel’s apologetic ways were going to go, because he had not ordered anything. 

“Señor,” the waiter said, holding out the tall glass. 

Greg took it without drying off first. The sun was already hot on his back and the saltwater trickling down it felt cool. “Gracias,” he said, anxious that he had brought no cash for a tip. He pulled his key card from the inside pocket of his swim trunks and held it out in hopes that he could charge both to his room. 

The waiter gently pushed it away. 

Greg considered the possibility that they were running some illegal book on the races or something that they didn’t want a police officer to notice. They needn’t have worried, he was from London not Interpol. Of course, if he began to have serious suspicions, he could always call Jean-Pierre. The waiter drew an envelope from his jacket pocket and held it out to Greg. It was clearly marked with his name and room number. Greg exchanged the envelope for his empty glass. “Qué es?” he asked.

The waiter gave him a knowing smile. “From a beautiful señorita,” he replied.

For a second, Greg thought of Angelina and wondered if the mysterious upgrade had been discovered to be a mistake and the large envelope would contain a large invoice. He turned the envelope over. The stationary was heavy and fine. Not the sort that car hire agencies used, even if they did rent deluxe autos. Greg popped the lightly sealed flap and pulled out the engraved card inside. His eyebrows rose. It was a ticket for a seat in the grandstand in Puerto Banus for the official start of the race the next afternoon and an invitation to the champagne reception to follow. He snorted and decided to modify the title of his hypothetical blog entry to: _Sorry for any convenience, please drink champagne_ when it occurred to him nothing he had packed was likely to meet the dress code for the day.

He tapped the card against his hand and decided he could always slip out early if he felt too underdressed. He looked up at the waiter, whose name tag proclaimed him to be Alvaro. “The señorita was very beautiful?” Greg asked.

“Sí,” Alvaro replied and the smile that brightened his face said much more than the word.

“Blonde?” Greg asked and held his hand near the top of his head to indicate Angelina’s height.

Alvaro wagged his index finger, then held his hand out near his chin. “Dark hair,” he said with appreciation and his hand outlined a wave from his forehead to his shoulder. “Dark eyes,” he continued and added another wavy gesture with his free hand to represent other attributes of the mysterious woman.

“Hmmph,” Greg said. If his name hadn’t been on the envelope, he would have assumed it was meant for whoever had originally rented the suite. Maybe it was and whoever was distributing the invitations only had the address and not the details of the individual intended and had called the desk to get the name. _Bit far-fetched,_ Greg mused. It didn’t matter. That bloke hadn’t been able to come, so they could have the honour of Gregory Lestrade’s presence. And maybe the pretty woman could, too.

*** 

The air in the lobby felt too cold against his skin. He had perhaps overdone the time in the sun, but he had ridden across the waves on the jet-ski like it had been days instead of years since he’d done it last and it had been hard to stop.

Greg leaned against the desk while a large family checked in and surveyed the shop windows ringing the lobby. There was one displaying linen suits and jackets. The manikin on the left wore its garment with an attitude that made Greg grin. He’d struck similar poses in front of the mirror in the leather jacket he’d bought with the money from his first summer job. His wife had donated it to Oxfam. She had informed him two years later when he’d noticed it wasn’t at the back of the closet anymore and asked about it.

“Señor Lestrade.” The concierge’s voice interrupted the image of the old wooden hanger he had always used for it, dangling empty from his hand. “How may we assist you today?”

Greg turned to answer. He cleared his throat, holding his hand up for an instant. “I was wondering whether I could get a suit dry-cleaned by tomorrow evening.” 

“Certainly, sir.”

“And a shirt pressed,” Greg added.

The concierge smiled. “Just call down to the desk or I can send someone up with you now, if you are going to your room.”

“No need,” Greg said. “I’ll call down in a bit.”

“A moment,” the concierge said, pivoting to the row of shelves behind him. “This should have been in your room when you checked in last night. The vouchers come with the suite,” the man finished, handing a gilt-edged folder to Greg. “Shoes can also be polished, if you require.”

“Thanks,” Greg said and meandered off towards the lifts. Through the lobby doors, he noticed a black Jaguar pulling away. 

*** 

A basket of fruit had joinged the flowers on the table in his room. He peeled a fig and a tangerine to eat and put his feet up on the bed to flip through the folder. Its slips of paper offered exotic cocktails at several hotel bars and restaurants, personal training sessions in the gym and massages in the spa, among other diversions. He rather liked the massage idea.

The sun was setting when he woke, still dressed, amidst bits of glossy paper. Flamenco music floated through the balcony doors from somewhere above him. Groggily, he called the desk about the dry-cleaning and went out to the balcony to listen to the music while he waited.

An hour later, showered and shaved, Greg followed the music to the rooftop.

 

He thought the wine had probably been too good or too plentiful. He pushed away his half-eaten paella and let his chin rest in his hand, his eyes riveted on the two dancers circling one another on the small stage on the terrace. There was something in their straight backs and haughty looks which tugged at his memory, something in the tempo of the music, the striking of their sharp heels against the wooden platform that echoed a rhythm in his blood. He would have liked to dance with them.

*** 

When he opened his eyes next, Greg stared at the brilliant blue for a long while, thinking that it must brighten the mood to wake up to that colour day after day. A breeze stirred the bougainvillea that clung to the hotel walls. Their boughs swayed around the edges of the windows. He could hear car doors closing and the voices of a few early swimmers responding to the lure of the pounding surf. It was rougher than it had been the previous day. The waves would be higher. He shifted under the light coverlet, mildly achy muscles registering the restorative effect of sufficient sleep. The day stretched sweetly ahead of him. Perhaps he would just stay and watch the flash of scarlet and white petals against the sky. His eyes closed and he caught a wisp of a dream in which his arm encircled a slender waist clad in a tight black waistcoat.

The shush of something sliding across the tiles made him sit up. Curiosity roused him. It was only a note stating when his clothes would be ready. _What had I hoped it would be?_

*** 

Instead of his suit, a breakfast trolley arrived. “Complimentary with your suite, sir,” the young man said as he wheeled it in. “Would you like to eat on the balcony?” 

“Here is fine, thank you,” Greg said. “I’m waiting for my dry-cleaning to arrive.”

“Ah, yes. I have a message about that.” The attendant presented an envelope to Greg with an anxious look.

“We regret to inform you,” the note began. _Here it comes,_ Greg thought, reading about the defect in the pressing machine that had apparently ruined his clothing. “Please stop by the Monaco shop on the ground floor for measurements. Your choice of replacement garments can be fitted within the hour. We are sorry for any inconvenience.”

Greg looked up at the attendant, who seemed to be awaiting instructions. “We are most sorry, señor. Shall I pour your coffee?” 

Shaking his head, Greg glanced at his watch and said, “Would you tell the shopkeeper I’ll be down by ten?” He couldn’t help smiling at the idea of that linen jacket. 

*** 

Greg stared down at the packages on his bed and wondered whether he’d been out in the sun too long the previous day. He freed the soft navy shirt from its cocoon of tissue and laid it next to the light blue linen suit. He wasn’t sure how often he’d get to wear them in London, but they would indeed be perfect for the race and the reception afterwards. Fleetingly, he thought that Mycroft would appreciate them, then shook his head at the oddness of the idea. 

 

*** 

The sky had remained clear, the water bluer for it, the sails of the boats brighter against the background of both. Greg lingered as the other viewers began to descend from the grandstand. Some people had been watching from the rails of a grand old ship docked at the outer edge of the marina. As good as his view had been from high in the stand, he envied them being out on the water. Finally, he tucked his programme in his jacket pocket and followed the others towards the hotel behind the stand.

He extracted his invitation and held it out to the white-haired gentleman by the open, glass doors. “Excuse me, señor,” the man said, pointing over Greg’s shoulder. “Your reception venue is out in the harbour.” Greg tried to follow the line of the man’s outstretched hand above the shoulders of the people pouring through the doors. “The tall ship there. You can see the Italian flag on the mast.” Greg’s eyes opened wider. “Just follow the last pier out to the end.”

Greg’s face lit up. “Gracias,” he said and began threading his way against the flow of the crowd. It was easy to keep his eye on the mast. He didn’t recall having picked up any lucky pennies recently or other magical talisman, but since he’d reached the gate at the airport he had certainly been on a lucky roll. Making a quick calculation, Greg decided the money he had set aside for an evening at the casino later in the week could be increased a bit. As he approached the ship, he smoothed down the cool linen of his jacket, and thought that it would make a better souvenir than the memory of an evening at a casino which would soon fade away. _Unless, of course, I win, but one never wins._

**** 

The carvings along the curved lines of the ship became clearer the closer Greg got. He showed his invitation to the officer at the bottom of the gangplank. “Amerigo Vespucci,” Greg read as he mounted the slighly swaying planks. 

“Welcome,” the officer at the top of the gangway said and the officer next to him piped Greg aboard. 

“She’s beautiful,” Greg murmured, craning his head to see to the top of the intricate rigging.

“Thank you, sir,” the officer replied and turned to greet the next guest.

“What is she?” Greg said aloud as he paused along the rail to admire while less distracted guests passed him by. 

A man behind him replied, “A training ship for naval cadets.” Greg turned to see an elegant man of middle years. “So they can experience the history of their calling as well as learn the modern skills. You are a man of the sea yourself?” Greg heard the pride in the man's voice. 

“No. Just an amateur enthusiast who gets too little time to indulge, I’m afraid.” 

“Army?” 

“Police,” Greg replied. The man’s brows knitted. “Not here in my professional capacity, I assure you,” Greg added. “ _Far_ out of my jurisdiction.”

The man’s expression cleared. “All the better to enjoy the experience.” He extended his hand. “Let me introduce myself, Giancarlo Montenari.” He offered his card after he released his grip and Greg noted the title of Italian cultural attaché printed beneath his name. 

“Greg Lestrade,” Greg replied. He held his hands open, palms up. “I’m sorry, I didn’t bring any cards.” 

“Not to worry, Mr Lestrade,” Giancarlo said.

Greg’s eyes strayed upwards again for a moment. “I had no idea there were any ships like this in active service.”

Montenari smiled. “You must join us for the captain's tour. Aurelio is full of historical anecdotes. He is, understandably, proud of his ship." He gestured towards his family as they returned to his side. "First, let me introduce my beautiful wife, Beatice, and our lovely nieces, Elizabeta and Raphaela.”

Greg noted that the adjectives were completely warranted as one by one, he raised three hands close to his lips. Donovan would have snorted if she’d seen him, but the gallantry seemed at one with the setting.

 

“Detective Inspector,” Montenari said later when he found Greg by the bar. Greg raised an eyebrow. Giancarlo held up his smart phone. “The wonders of modern technology. We will have the tour now. You will enjoy it. Bring your champagne.”

As a young officer led them through the narrow corridors to the captain’s saloon to begin the tour, Greg saw several people being seated in what appeared to be a formal dining room. The angle of the low doorway revealed those still standing from the shoulders down. As Greg tilted his head for a better view, the door of the room shut. His last glimpse was of a man snapping a gold pocket watch closed and slipping it into his waistcoat. 

Montenari introduced Greg to several people in the group from various consulates in Malaga who mostly seemed to speak English. The captain enthusiastically began the tour in that language and Montenari quietly translated a few key facts for his family until another member of the group drew him aside.

“You don’t speak Italian,” Mrs Montenari enquired in careful English when it appeared her husband wasn’t going to be free anytime soon.

“Only French and English,” Greg replied. “And a little Spanish.” 

“Français?” the younger niece, Elisabeta, exclaimed softly. “C’est merveilleux.” 

“Shall I translate into French for you?” Greg asked.

“Ah, oui. Si vous plaît, Inspecteur.”

He was indispensable for the rest of the evening.

 

“Inspector, you have saved me a serious scolding this evening,” Montenari said at the bottom of the gangway as they said their farewells. “Can we offer you a ride to your hotel?” 

“It was my pleasure,” Greg replied. “But I have my car parked a few blocks from the marina.” 

“Let us drop you at it, then,” Montenari said.

“Thank you. I can walk. It’s a beautiful evening,” Greg replied.

“I will ask you now, then,” Giancarlo continued as they strolled along the pier to the car waiting for his family. “If you are free, would you care to join us tomorrow? We are taking our nieces on a sight-seeing tour in Granada and to a concert at Alhambra in the evening. My wife and I would be delighted if you would be our guest.” 

Mme. Montenari smiled encouragingly. Elisabeta looked up through dark lashes from a consultation with her sister and nodded at him. Greg supposed he seemed like a safe escort for the two young women, but still a bit more interesting than only being with their aunt and uncle. A very little bit, Greg thought, since they were about half his age.

“It would be my pleasure to join you,” Greg said and looked up at the stars. A lucky one was clearly shining on him. He thought he might be able to have the top down on the Aston Martin for the drive.

**** 

Even with flashing lights and sirens, central London didn’t afford many opportunities for driving pleasure. It made Greg appreciate all the more the light late-morning traffic on the wide, smooth motorway. The top was down on the convertible and Greg felt the engine respond every time he shifted gears.

On one straight-away, he may have exceeded the speed limit somewhat. Even so, a black Jaguar had passed him as though he had been standing still and disappeared up an exit ramp in the distance. The vehicle had been moving too rapidly for Greg to be sure, but he thought the plates might have been diplomatic. 

*** 

“C’est triste, n’est-çe pas?” Elisabeta asked Greg as they walked through the candlelit gardens after the concert. “All the glory gone. The beauty fading away. The night hides some of it, but it cannot hide that much sadness.”

Greg looked away from the shadowy trees to meet Elisabeta’s eyes. They were reflecting the nearest flames and he felt his were probably doing the same.

“Attendez,” Raphaela called. Greg and Elisabeta paused and glanced back; Raphaela was ahead of her aunt and uncle as she hurried along the path towards them. She looked from her sister to Greg and back. “Oh, Elizabeta. As if the music was not enough, you are making him sadder.” She turned to Greg. “She is a historian, you know. Ancient history. ‘The glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome.’” Giancarlo and his wife had reached them. Raphaela laid her hand on her aunt’s arm. “Zia, we have to take Inspecteur Lestrade dancing with us tomorrow. See what Elisabeta has done to him.”

Greg hoped the darkness hid his blush.

“I see my niece has been philosophising. It’s a family weakness. She takes after my brother-in-law. We don’t wish to impose on your time, Inspector, but if you could join us tomorrow evening, we would be most pleased. We are going to a club recommended by my younger colleagues for some modern music.”

“And dancing,” Raphaela added. “I think you like to dance, Inspecteur.” 

Greg felt his cheeks heating. It was what he’d been wanting to do since he got off the plane, but a good evening of dancing should be a prelude to activities which would not be at all appropriate with the pretty nieces whose aunt and uncle had extended their hospitality so graciously to him.

“We leave for Rome the following afternoon,” Elizabeta said and her sister nodded.

Greg found himself nodding in response. Giancarlo clapped him on the back. “Excellent. It is settled. We can have a late supper first because there is no point in going to the club before one at the earliest, I am assured.” 

“Only if you will be my guests for supper,” Greg insisted.

“Where do you stay? We can meet at your hotel?” Giancarlo said. 

Greg gave the hotel’s name. 

“One of the restaurants there perhaps?” Giancarlo suggested and it was agreed.

“And perhaps Elizabeta and I can drive with you to the club,” Raphaela suggested. Montenari raised his eyebrows. “I am sure the inspector is a very careful driver. Despite his car.”

Greg bowed. Montenari laughed and said, “They have us outnumbered.”

The mood and the stars were bright as Greg drove back to Marbella.

*** 

The time in the steam room had left Greg so relaxed that he almost didn’t open his eyes when he heard the masseur come into the room. When he did, he wished he hadn’t. The man had shoulders like an American football player and would have been at least a head taller than Greg, if Greg had been standing. As it was, he was stretched out on his stomach with only a towel draped over his bum. And then the man introduced himself with a smile and, despite the mass of him, his face became that of a cheerful boy. 

Greg felt his muscles relaxing once more. As Anatoly poured warm oil along Greg’s back and rubbed it into his shoulders, Greg let his eyes drift shut. The music playing in the background was so soft that the singer’s voice was hardly more than a murmur. Even when the words were in English, Greg stopped trying to find the meaning in them. Anatoly worked down each arm, right to the fingertips and then down Greg’s back to the edge of the towel. When he reached it, he moved around the table to Greg’s feet and began to massage the arch of the left foot, firmly so it didn’t tickle.

“You’d like the full massage, sir?” Anatoly asked, his hands gently kneading the muscle of Greg’s right calf.

“Sure,” Greg mumbled, half asleep. He hadn’t had many massages and they had all been relaxing. Some of his colleagues had had therapeutic ones which they said had hurt, but Greg hadn’t pulled or strained any muscles lately. All he felt was an added awareness of each part of his body as Anatoly’s hands touched it and an intense lassitude once those skilful hands moved on. “Sure,” he repeated as Anatoly’s fingers moved up his right thigh. There was a slight draft when the towel was lifted before more warm oil pooled at the small of Greg’s back and quick hands kept it from dripping down his sides. He sighed and thought that the circular motion of Anatoly’s hands matched the beat of the music. He may have dozed.

 

Greg dropped his key card next to the fruit basket and headed straight for the shower. The hot water brought out the fragrance of the oil that covered his skin. There was a hint of rose in it. He leaned against the cool glass and let the water run down his back. His hand slid down his chest. He couldn’t help it. He’d had no idea that was what a full massage entailed. The aroma intensified. His skin had been so slick with oil; the intrusion almost imperceptible until his nerves had jangled. Greg’s hand tightened on the downstroke. Even the memory was intense.

*** 

The club hadn’t been far from the hotel, but the weather had stayed fair and he’d put the top of the car down again. Raphaela and Elizabeta had both approved.

He’d been a bit surprised at what good dancers Giancarlo and his wife were. Familiarity didn’t seem to have bred contempt, if the rhythm of their movements were anything to go by. Beatrice had been laughing at something Giancarlo had said as they sat down on the curved banquette next to Raphaela.

“Now that we’ve shown how it’s done,” Giancarlo said, reaching for his wine glass and raising it in the general direction of Greg and his nieces.

Greg had already danced a polite slow dance apiece with Elizabeta and her sister. At Giancarlo’s words, Greg reached to either side and clasped their hands. “Ladies,” he said, “I believe we have been issued a challenge.” He stood and drew them up with him. 

The sunken dance floor was already filling as the next song began. Elizabeta looked momentarily confused. Raphaela arched an eyebrow at her sister. “Both of us?” Elizabeta asked Greg.

“Porquoi pas?” Greg replied and leaned back to let Elizabeta move past him to follow Raphaela towards the steps.

Greg glanced at Giancarlo before he, too, followed. Giancarlo was settled against the sofa, his arm stretched along the back of it behind Beatrice, just the tips of his fingers resting on her bare shoulder. She was leaning against him and sipping her wine with a smile playing about her lips. Giancarlo raised his glass again towards Greg. “Bon courage, my friend,” he said and Greg laughed.

*** 

It was a short drive to the casino. Going alone seemed strange after the sociability of the previous few days. In London, only work brought Greg to the large casinos that dotted the city, but he wasn’t immune to the persistent glamour films cast over the activity. With a deft turn of the wheel, he guided the Aston Martin into a parking space. Sometimes, Greg thought, silencing the soft growl of the machine, it was restorative to indulge in a little fantasy in one’s down time, on a holiday, especially when one saw as much reality as he did. He was relieved he could still push the knowledge he had aside for a while, to see what other people saw…or something close. The car chirped as it locked. He grinned. If he truly wanted to act out a fantasy, he should have hired a dinner suit with a satin bow tie for the evening. Instead, he’d donned the blue linen again with a white shirt open at the collar. Since the hotel had insisted on replacing his one M&S shirt with several, he’d given in and worn them. He could always leave them behind. As Greg mounted the steps to the casino, he wondered again what potentate had originally been booked into his suite. He chuckled as he stepped into the casino’s quiet reception room. Surely, he would lose his little stake on their green baize tables; fortune couldn’t smile on him more than she already had on this trip. It was a very liberating frame of mind in which to begin an evening of gambling.

The woman behind the tall desk looked sternly at both his passport and the form listing his local address and asked Greg to wait a moment while she made a phone call. When she hung up, her expression eased to unreadable as she handed back his passport and an envelope. Greg wondered if she played poker. Professionally. 

She pointed at the envelope. “Give that to the cashier when you buy your chips,” she instructed and Greg nodded obediently. She seemed satisfied. “Enjoy your evening,” she said coolly and turned her attention to the couple behind him.

The main room of the casino was not huge and most of the patrons had opted for more casual attire than cinema portrayals would lead one to expect. Greg smiled at himself as he slid fifty euros and the envelope across the counter to the cashier. His whole holiday seemed to have brought out the wide-eyed youth in him. The cashier pushed a large stack of chips towards Greg. 

Greg scowled and took a quick tally. “Excuse me,” he said. “This is far too much.”

The cashier stared at the chips, checked the card he had taken from the envelope and shook his head. “No, it is correct,” he replied. “They come with the voucher from your hotel.” He handed Greg a small card. “Please bring that to the bar. We are sorry for any inconvenience,” he added and shifted his gaze to the next customer.

The chips weighed down Greg’s pockets as he stepped away. He glanced at the card. It said more or less what he expected: redeemable for two glasses of champagne.

He headed for the table where it looked like twenty-one was being dealt.

*** 

“You have enjoyed your stay with us, señor?” Alvaro asked as he looked around the room.

Greg hadn’t asked for help with his bags, but when he had called the desk to verify the check-out time, Alvaro had already been knocking on his door when he put down the receiver.

“Best holiday I’ve ever had,” Greg replied smiling, and then his smile faded. It had been. Better than his honeymoon even. They’d quarrelled the second day and on the flight home from Madrid.

“Is anything wrong, señor?” Alvaro enquired and Greg shook his head. “Can I get you anything?” Greg shook his head again. 

It hadn’t been right from the beginning, he thought and sighed. But they had Charlotte. They’d always had Charlotte. It was why they’d gotten married, that pulsing ghost on a dark screen. And now she was starting her master’s degree in public health, ready to save the world. Greg smiled. She was a good girl, a beautiful girl, but she’d seen what an unsatisfactory mess her parents’ marriage had been. Greg sighed and saw Alvaro emerge from the bathroom with a pair of black socks and walk across the room to tuck them into the pouch of the carry-on. They probably should have ended the charade much sooner.

“Right,” Greg said, but Alvaro had disappeared.

“Señor! You haven’t packed half your clothes,” Alvaro called from the bedroom.

“They aren’t mine,” Greg said as Alvaro came into the room with his arms full.

“Of course they are yours, señor. Tailored exactly for you. Sr Marquez will have my head if you leave these behind,” Alvaro continued, dropping the garments on the bed and the shoes in front of it and getting the carry-on.

“They won’t fit,” Greg protested.

Alvaro tutted. “You have to know how to pack. _I_ know how to pack,” he said. Greg shrugged. He could always give them to Oxfam.

Alvaro glanced at him over the collar of the shirt he was folding. “Don’t give them away, señor. You look very handsome in them.” Greg huffed. “Sometimes, life gives you a gift. When it does, you say ‘thank you’ by enjoying it.”

“Thank you,” Greg said.

Alvaro smiled. “I will tell Life, you said so.”

*** 

Greg heard Didymous before he saw him. “Hey, look at you!” Stuart said as he held the door to the lobby open for Greg. “Took advantage of that perfect weather I see!”

“I did,” Greg replied, grinning and angling his shoulder to get his bags through the door.

“And brought some of it back with you. I don’t think the sun’s been out since you left.” Stuart’s arm jerked as Didymous darted out the door past Greg’s legs with a joyful yip.

“I’m glad I missed _that_ ,” Greg said.

“Was it as good as you hoped?” Stuart asked with a wink.

“Different,” Greg replied, setting his bags down and unlocking his post box. “But good.” He pulled out a couple envelopes and a postcard. “Definitely good.” 

Didymous let out a yelp as the door closed on his lead. Greg looked up. “Gotta go,” Stuart said. “Some details over a pint, yeah?” 

“Sure thing,” Greg said before the door shut again after Stuart. Greg took a quick look at the postcard view of his hotel taken from the beach with some well-oiled sunbathers in the foreground and a few patrons lunching on the patio in the mid-ground before flipping the card over. 

_I hope the dog doesn’t eat this one._

Greg turned the card back to the photo and re-scanned it with a professional eye. The edge of the image sliced through a lean figure in white seated alone on the patio. The head and right shoulder were missing. In the left hand, a gold pocket watch caught the sunlight. On the table was a champagne flute. 

Greg pursed his lips and tapped the postcard against his chin. Didymous barked from the forecourt. “We’ll have to see about that,” Greg murmured. “We’ll have to see.”

~~~~~~~~

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel, _Necropolis_ , may be read [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1020304).


End file.
